Werewolf Business
by lecrayon
Summary: Oneshot. The Burrow was pointedly silent. LupinTonks.


"**Werewolf Business"**

**Disclaimer: What you recognize is not mine.**

**One-shot, I think, to get it out of my system.**

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They locked gazes over their teacups. Everyone else had cruelly left them together, although he wasn't sure if they knew the significance of it. They stared long enough for the tea to stop steaming and for his eyes to start watering.

He broke the gaze first. "Ah—werewolf business," he muttered vaguely, standing up. She seemed to smile.

"Werewolf business?" she repeated. Her fingers crept across the table surface. "It's not full moon yet, Remus."

Her fingers tapped lightly on the wood; his eyes strayed over to them. The square tips of her fingers dented slightly with every tap, and her small palm created a shadow that came and went rhythmically. The candles were lit too dramatically, he reflected. And then he registered what she called him.

Remus.

"If it was full moon I wouldn't be here talking to you." The sharpness of his voice surprised him. "I mean—"

"You mean?" she deftly caught up the pause in his words. She always turned his bald statements into questions, but he never found himself getting annoyed, although other people did. And her impatience. She never liked to leave a question hanging from anyone else except for herself.

"Er—at the Ministry," he began slowly, "there's a—a—conference."

And then he wondered why he hadn't left yet. He was still standing, chair thrust messily out behind him. Apparently, she realized this too, and jerked back her arm.

Shatter.

Poor Molly. Third cup this week, I believe, he thought while he leaned over to repair it.

"Damn."

He was always caught unawares when she swore, however mildly. She was simply too young looking, he thought, to be cursing. He reminded himself to have a word with Moody or Kingsley sometime about their behavior around her until he remembered that she was an adult—and Auror, even, and up to being foul-mouthed.

She leaned over, too, as she damned the situation. They nearly butted heads. Of course, that would have been entirely too much of a cliché. The fates were content for them to nudge each other in the temples and mingle his limp hair with her pink spikes. And they sprung apart. Neither remembered the teacup.

"Sorry," they whispered simultaneously. And then they avoided each other's eyes. He sat back down heavily.

"Remus—"

There it was again. Spoken quickly and painfully slow at the same time, although he could not for the life of him understand how that could happen. He stopped breathing. And he realized where this was going. Again.

"Tonks." He cut her off, inhaling suddenly with the word.

"Shut up. Listen to me."

He was mildly shocked at her demand, but he knew how spontaneous she was.

"Do you see this broken teacup?" she asked, jabbing her wand too hard into the wood accidentally. There was a thud-screech in which the wand skidded and he winced. "Fourth one this week."

Fourth one, then.

"I don't often break things while sitting down. No, really, I don't." She examined the point of her wand carefully for a second, and then flicked it. The cup flew together into a whole piece again, but the flowery designs did not quite match up. "And do you know why I broke it?"

"No," he said hoarsely.

"Because of you."

She blamed _him_ for knocking it over? He lifted his eyes to meet hers, expecting to see an amused glint dancing in them. She was not going somewhere with it—she was joking. Joking.

But her eyes were deadly serious.

And since when was he such an expert at interpreting eyes? He wasn't. If he really was, he wouldn't make such horrifying mistakes, especially during those important job interviews. No. It was only her eyes. They changed color too often to remain steady.

"Why?"

Why, indeed?

"I really like you."

And I really like you too. But of course he didn't realize that his mind had answered for him. He merely sat there, too far from the table to rest his arms on them but too close to leap up and run away.

"Sirius was right about everything," she blurted out. "You know he was so good at this stuff."

And he found himself agreeing silently, chest forgetting to constrict like it normally did whenever Sirius was mentioned. He was right about James and Lily.

"I can't give you what you ask for." He noticed the teacup was gone.

"I'm not asking you for anything!" she said, standing up and knocking her chair over backwards. She furiously attempted to right it with another wave of her wand, but it twirled midair behind her and fell with another crash. She ignored it—her wandwork always suffered when she was agitated. It was also good that she kept her head when she was on the job. "I'm just telling you right now. You won't have it any other way."

"I'm—"

"Yes, I know, you are nowhere near my age and you are a werewolf. I'm not disregarding that. But that doesn't mean anything to me," she said more softly, tripping over the abused chair to make her way to his side of the table. "I still like you."

He stood up, too, because he didn't like the feeling of not being able to move when she was moving. And he was also afraid that she would get too close, like last time.

"Why on earth would you have me, Tonks?" he said louder than he meant to. "Don't—don't waste yourself on me, I beg you."

"Then why are you wasting your time on me?"

It jolted him. Something was not right.

"You are too transparent for your own good," said she, hiccoughing instead of laughing, like she usually would. And he noticed then that he knew too much about her.

"You like me too."

Yes, of course, what did she think? And he thought this before he could stop himself. Why else would he spend so long adjusting his tie when he knew he had to see her, no matter if the room would be so crowded with the Order that they would have no interaction? He had convinced himself that he was turning vain—too much time spent with Sirius in the past, he surmised. And why else would he be able to see underneath her elaborate disguises? He always knew that it was her, without her informing him.

The floating candles flickered. And in that instant, when the room grew imperceptibly darker and he was caught off guard, she stepped closer. His eyes roamed about the room, anywhere but her.

"I care too much for you to let you do that." He spoke abruptly and did not realize what he had let on.

"You care for me." It was not a question. She leaned in farther, and his senses went on leave and left him to forget to lean back. And then it was too late.

And they both knew that he did not care for her in a platonic way. And they both understood that something unbidden was unfurling craftily.

And they both knew that no one would be interrupting them, for the Burrow was pointedly silent.

He spared a chuckle before leaning in, too.

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**A/N: They were acting on the impulse of the moment, and you can imagine what happens later. I don't work against canon. Please review, even if this is just a little one-shot. I may even do a second chapter based on "her" POV, if the reviews inspire me enough.**


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